The One Night Sandwich

How one Canadian sandwich impressed a lady way out of one sandwich-eating guy's league.

Europe was for kids with trust funds. Midwesterners took the Amtrak to France Lite: Montreal. The Quebecois women treated me like a Frère Jacques-ass. Most nights ended at the counter at Bens (no apostrophe), a nicotine-tinged shrine to the local delicacy -- viande fumée, pastrami with a five-minute penalty for high-sticking. My last morning, I ordered takeout and grabbed a souvenir matchbook.

I saw her at Windsor Station. Tall and blond with a modeling portfolio under her arm, she stood across the platform and out of my league. Later, in the smoking car (this was a long time ago), she was tapping a Black Cat cigarette, fumbling for her lighter. I offered the matchbook. "Ah, Bens," she said. I closed the deal with the sandwich in my duffel. She may have been lissome as a lily, but the girl chowed like a hockey goalie. I followed her all the way to New York City.

I made it home to the Midwest, eventually. Bens is gone now, and so is she, but I found that matchbook the other day -- with one match missing. It couldn't have lasted: She was a ten with everything, and I was a six, hold the pickle.

A Part of Hearst Digital Media
Esquire participates in various affiliate marketing programs, which means we may get paid commissions on editorially chosen products purchased through our links to retailer sites.